


Can't Trust

by mommymuffin



Series: Breathe Me [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asshole Gerard Argent, Awesome Lydia, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Blood, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Chris Argent Feels, Creepy, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Dreams, F/M, Flashbacks, Guilt, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Making Up, Manipulation, Mentioned Paige, Missing Persons, Nemeton, Psychological Trauma, Stiles Hurting Derek, Trauma, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2440565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two hours since Derek woke up and found Stiles gone from his bed and only god knows how long since he actually went missing. He refuses to think about what could have already happened in two or more hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Single Word (But You Can Trust That Scream)

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha! I return! And it's still not good for our heroes, dear readers. Not good at all. Sorry if you were expecting something else. (But come on, I'm evil. We know this. :D)
> 
> Oh, yes, and again, not sure how many parts this is going to flush out to be.
> 
> Big thanks to my beta, monkeyloser!
> 
> And thanks to all of you for sticking with me, you awesome people, you!

Sheriff Stilinski is not a violent man. He has the occasional episode of anger, but it usually doesn't involve physical violence unless it also involves alcohol, which it hasn't in years, and even then it was never directed at a particular person. So all in all, John Stilinski isn't the type of man to punch somebody because they deserve it. He's seen _a lot_ of people who deserve it after so many years as a cop; he's learned not to give in to the urge to just bash someone's face in. But right now, looking at Gerard Argent's smirking face, he thinks that could change. In fact he thinks Gerard Argent is just the right type of slimeball to tip him over the edge.

"He's missing? How unfortunate," the old man says.

The Sheriff feels a tic in his eye.

"Did you have something to do with this, Gerard?" Chris asks. "I know you sent the hunters who ambushed us at the bank."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Chris," Gerard says, simpering.

Chris opens his mouth to respond with something ugly, but the Sheriff beats him to it, wrapping his hand in the collar of Gerard's shirt and getting up in his face.

"Listen, you shriveled up, little troll," John spits. "Pretending like you haven't orchestrated half the chaos in this town _isn't_ cute. I'm all caught up now and it would be easy for me to find enough evidence to put you away for at least _one_ of the many, _many_ things you've done, you psychopath. So drop the act or I _will_ make you. _Do you understand?_ "

"Oh, I understand perfectly well, Sheriff." Gerard chuckles darkly. "But I don't know why you think prison would be any worse than my current situation. I'm bound to a wheelchair and dying slowly either way."

"There are worse things than prison or death," the Sheriff says coldly.

Chris places a hand on Sheriff Stilinski's shoulder, pulling him back slightly, but only because the man is willing to be pulled. John releases Gerard's collar and stands back, eyes on the enemy, expression like steel.

"Gerard," Chris says. "Just tell us what you know."

Gerard considers his son for a moment, that old and familiar calculating glower Chris remembers from growing up. Then the elder Argent snorts and laces his hands over his stomach, leans back in the chair comfortably.

"Fine. I'll tell you everything I know. Which is nothing. Unfortunately for you. I'm afraid I have nothing to do with the young Mr. Stilinski's disappearance."

"Did your hunters have anything to do with it?" Chris asks, lip curled in disgust at the games his father is trying to play.

"No," Gerard says simply. "Really. I did send them the night of the daring bank rescue and they still have their orders to destroy those animals and their little diabolist in training, but they had nothing to do with your current problem. They've been regrouping and restocking since the night before last."

The two men stare down Gerard for a silent moment.

"Is he lying?" the Sheriff asks.

Chris hates to admit it, but, "No. He's telling the truth."

Gerard shrugs happily. "So sorry about your son, Sheriff. But I'm afraid I can't help you."

"If you think this is over, you've got another thing coming," John says, then turns on his heel and departs.

Chris glances once more at his father.

"I wish I could say I was surprised at you, but I'm not," Chris says. "I'm not going to let you and your rogue hunters kill those kids."

"Derek Hale is no child and neither are the rest of them. Especially that _wolf's whore_ that murdered your sister."

Chris is on Gerard in a flash, boxing him into the wheelchair and leaning over him aggressively. "I am sick and tired of your _selective memory_ , Gerard. You're insane and so was Kate. What the two of you did to the Hale Pack, past or present, was _wrong_ , and I shudder to think about what other horrors you've inflicted on innocents over the years that I don't know about. The hunter's code was not something to be tossed aside for your psychotic whims or your sick vendetta. I will _never_ see it your way again, Dad. I will stand by the people in this town, who are trying to do the right thing--who are trying to _protect_ it. Because that is what I have always stood for. Not you or your revenge-driven machinations. Stop your hunters or _I_ will."

Chris is gone as quickly as he came, tearing down the hall before Gerard can respond. The Sheriff is waiting for him by the front doors, probably sensing Chris needed an extra moment with Gerard because of the added complication of their blood ties. That was considerate of him, but as far as Chris is concerned, his father is already dead to him.

"Dead end. Where to now?" Chris asks.

"Let's head back to the station and see if they've found anything," the Sheriff says. "We'll call in the car and see if _they've_ found anything, too.

 

"No," Derek says, voice clipped. "Not yet. Still looking."

"Keep us posted," the Sheriff says and hangs up.

Derek stuffs his phone back into his pocket, the need to keep in contact with everyone else, the only reason he's not currently shifted and searching on all fours, daylight and the Sheriff's Department search party be damned.

It's been _two hours_ since Derek woke up and found Stiles gone from his bed and only god knows how long since he actually went missing. Derek can't fathom what kind of creature could have snuck into the hospital room and taken him with Derek sitting six inches away, but he knows that whatever it was, he can't leave Stiles with it a second longer than necessary. He refuses to think about what could have already happened in two or more hours. He refuses.

They'll find him and he'll be fine. _End of story_.

He can sense Peter and Cora running parallel to him. Boyd, Isaac, and Erica are running in the opposite directions, the group at large skirting the Sheriff's deputies as they comb the woods as well. Scott and Allison are canvassing the town. Chris and the Sheriff are tracking down any leads.

No one has turned up a goddamn thing.

Derek keeps running.

 

About ten seconds after Scott hangs up with the Sheriff he hears snickering behind him.

Allison turns around faster than him, crossbow bolted and at the ready. They're faced with one of the Alpha twins.

"What are you doing here?" Scott demands. He's not sure which twin it is.

He shrugs, smiling easily. "Visiting my boyfriend," he replies, tossing his head behind him in the direction of Danny's house. So this one must be Ethan.

"Sounds like a pretty good reason to put an arrow in your thigh to me," Allison says flatly, dangerously.

Ethan holds up his hands in surrender, even though he doesn't look too sorry to be caught out. "There was nothing nefarious, I promise. No one _sent_ me. I just wanted to see him." He shrugs again.

Scott cocks an eyebrow, looks at Allison, who is giving him the exact same look.

"Wait. Do you actually like Danny?" Scott asks, bewildered.

Ethan's expression shutters closed. "I didn't say that."

"Actually, I think you kind of did," Allison says, giving him a sympathetic look.

"Yeah, with your face," Scott adds, causing Allison to roll her eyes fondly.

"Whatever," Ethan scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets mulishly and attempting to look tough… It's actually kind of cute. Or at least it is until he opens his mouth and says, "So your emissary is missing? That's kind of terrible, considering he's _blind_ , isn't it?"

Scott's face clouds with cold rage. "What do you know about Stiles' disappearance?"

They had all suspected the Alpha Pack, but damn if any of them could find where the bastards were hiding out now that the bank HQ was out of the question.

"Nothing," Ethan says plainly. "I just overheard you on the phone. How long has he been missing?"

"We're not sure," Scott says. "Since some time last night."

"Well...sucks for you. Later," Ethan says and walks past them.

"Wait!" Scott calls out.

Ethan turns to look at them. "What?" he asks frowning. "I just told you I don't know anything. Was I lying?"

"No…" Scott says. "But...if you do find out anything…"

"What? You want me to tell you?" Ethan asks incredulously. "I don't think I'm supposed to share with the class, McCall."

"How about for a trade?" Allison asks suddenly.

Ethan considers her. "Like what?"

Allison shrugs and twirls a piece of hair in a way that makes her look completely unassuming. It's a beautiful ruse, really. "Oh, I don't know...insider information on Danny? How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a pretty fair trade to me," Scott says sagely, nodding slowly.

They have him, they can tell. His defenses are slowly crumbling. He _totally_ likes Danny.

"What do you got?" Ethan asks.

Allison smiles sweetly. "What would you like to know?"

Ethan thinks about it. "His favorite song. And his favorite wine."

Scott giggles. He can't help it. The dude is totally stuck. Ethan and Allison turn matching scowls on him and he quickly sobers.

"Done," Allison says professionally to Ethan and pulls out her phone. She hits the speed dial.

"Hello, Allison," Lydia answers. "What's up?"

"A lot, actually," the teen replies. "But I need you to tell me Danny's favorite song and favorite wine."

She can practically hear Lydia frowning through the phone. "Why would you want to know that?"

"I don't want to, Lydia. I need to. Please."

"Sure, fine, whatever. It's 'Your Song' from Moulin Rouge and sweet red. Good?"

Allison pops her eyebrows at Ethan, who has been listening.

He nods. "Deal. I'll let you know if I hear anything about Stilinski."

Allison hears another voice come through the phone in the background.  " _What the hell?_ "

"Aiden?" Ethan asks, staring at the phone in puzzlement.

"Ethan?!" Aiden demands through the speaker.

"Jesus, get out of my face," Lydia says. "Here, I'll put it on speaker."

Allison switches her own phone to speaker to make things easier.

"Ethan, what do you think you're doing?" Aiden asks. "Deucalion's going to be pissed!"

"He's not going to find out," Ethan argues. "And it doesn't matter anyway. We had nothing to do with this, so I'm not going to have to call them."

"Do with what?" Lydia asks cautiously.

"Stiles is missing, Lydia," Allison says. "He disappeared from the hospital some time last night. There's no trace of him and we're looking, but no one is finding anything."

"Stiles was in the hospital again?" Lydias asks sharply.

Oh. Right. _Nobody_ called Lydia.

"Uh, yeah…" Allison says guiltily. "Sorry. I guess we forgot to tell you. Things have been kind of crazy since Friday night. Erica and Boyd are back and Derek's little sister is alive and there were a bunch of hunters and--"

"Allison," Lydia cuts in harshly. "Tell me what is happening. _Right now_."

They tell her, all four of them actually, lending bits and pieces of the story to make it a whole. By the end of it Lydia is silently fuming, something the trio on the other end of the line doesn't need to see to know.

"I'm coming to help look," she says sternly. "And so are you."

"What?" Aiden squawks.

"And you, Ethan," Lydia adds.

"What? No way, we're dead if we help you."

"Then do it discreetly. Text me your location," Lydia says and hangs up.

Allison, Scott, and Ethan all stare at the silent phone for a beat.

"Uh...so should we go ahead and exchange numbers?" Scott asks.

Ethan sighs. "Yeah. Fine. We're probably dead anyway, what's it matter?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Scott asks.

"It means Deucalion is crazy and wouldn't hesitate to kill us if we became too inconvenient."

"Aiden said that on the phone, too," Allison points out shrewdly. "Why are you guys with him if he's some unstable lunatic who's probably going to kill you? And really, you know you seemed pretty homicidal there at the beginning, but now I'm thinking you're kind of just going along with it."

"We pretty much are," Ethan admits.

"Why?" Scott asks.

"Because it's really hard to garner respect from your pack when you're a pair of teenaged Alphas. So we joined Deucalion instead of having our pack turn on us."

 

"Let me get this straight," Lydia says in the car, having just heard the same explanation from Aiden. "You didn't want your pack killing you out of resentment or whatever, so you killed them first, only to become part of a pack that may still kill you. Do I have that right?"

Aiden hesitates. "...Yeah…"

The redhead glances at her phone screen, watching the little marker on the map and following the directions her GPS is spitting out at her.

"Uh huh. Because that makes sense," she says.

"Look, it's more complicated than that," Aiden says.

"I'm sure it is," Lydia says primly. She pulls to the side of the road and parks.

"Uh, Lydia?" Aiden says.

"What?" Lydia asks, unbuckling her seatbelt.

"Where are we?" Aiden asks pointedly.

It's only then that Lydia looks out the window and sees that they're beside the preserve. Just on the edge of the treeline, pulled over on an empty stretch of road seemingly nowhere in particular.

"I…" Lydia says, faltering.

"Is this where they texted you they were?" Aiden asks, popping the door open and hopping out. He looks around, scents the air, doesn't notice anything or anyone. "I don't think this is right."

Lydia gets out of the car slowly. She looks shaken and a little pale. She pulls her white sweater tighter around her small frame and stares at the blank screen of her phone.

"Lydia?" Aiden asks, brows drawn down in confusion and maybe just a little concern.

"I typed it in. This is where the GPS said to go. You heard it. This is where it led us."

Aiden turns unnerved. He says, "Lydia. The GPS wasn't on."

She stares at the black piece of plastic, knowing that it had been displaying their route just a moment ago. "I swear it…"

"Lydia. What's going on?" Aiden asks.

"I don't know…" she whispers. "I don't...I…"

The young girl stops suddenly. Her whole body coils as if she's bracing for something.

Then she throws her head back, opens her mouth, and screams.


	2. The Voices in My Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, people, so here's the deal: my laptop went kaput. She was six years old (don't start, I know), may she rest in peace. I am working on getting a new one, but that is SO hard, you don't even know (well, you probably do, but go with it). They are like so expensive and so complicated and oh my god, I just want to type things and use the internet and like, just, okay??? Things have been/are going to be rough until I get my new one, so I don't know how things are going to go on the writing end of things. I'm using my work computer for personal use right now, but you can only push that so far, so. And as fun as writing in a notebook is (ha, kickin' it old school!) I still have to get things typed up and posted via the interwebs, so again: so. Until this gets fixed, please bear with me, my loves!
> 
> Also, if you noticed I've been on tumblr a lot recently, it's because I'm constantly on it via my phone since my computer died, so yeah, you'll be seeing a lot of me on there. Come talk to me some time! :D
> 
> All right, life update complete. Onward to the fic! Love you all! *smooches*

Stiles doesn't remember how he got in the woods.

He's standing in front of the Hale house, so he's not really worried. Derek will come find him.

He wanders contentedly in and out of the house, then in a circle around it, looking about curiously to see if anybody is around. It doesn't look like anybody is.

Stiles shrugs to himself, unconcerned, and moseys back over toward the porch. He'll just wait there and Derek will come find him.

He slides down to the steps and leans back against them. It's a little chilly and he puts his hands in his hoodie pockets. Strange. He doesn't remember putting on the red one this morning.

Something catches his eye at the edge of his vision and he turns to see a glimpse of white partially buried in the leaves. Strange. He doesn't remember seeing that when he was walking around.

The teen gets up and walks over to it, finding it's exactly what he thought it was: a piece of paper. Somebody must have dropped it out here. Curious as to what sort of papers someone would be carrying around the woods surrounding a condemned building, Stiles picks it up. It just confuses him when he sees what's on it.

It's a tree.

In fact it's a tree Stiles recalls seeing somewhere before, but where… Lydia. That's right. Stiles had seen this in Lydia's notebook. She'd been sketching the tree serenely in math class. "I like trees," she had said when Stiles asked about it.

Stiles hadn't thought anything of it. Everybody doodles in their notes. But it was strange to find it here in the middle of the woods now, ripped out of its notebook with little frayed fringe all along one edge, its owner nowhere to be found. Lydia wouldn't be out here in the first place, _definitely_ not at the Hale house considering what happened the last time she was here, or just the preserve in general, much less ripping random pages out of her math notes and littering.

Stiles folds the piece of paper up and places it in his pocket, resolving to ask Lydia about it later. He turns around to go back to the porch, but then he sees another one.

Another piece of paper about ten yards to his right from where he's standing. He's pretty sure that wasn't there when he was wandering around either.

Stiles goes and picks up the other piece of paper. It's another drawing of a tree. In fact it looks to be the exact same tree as the first one. Stiles fishes out the other paper, then holds up the two sketches to compare. Yes, they are _exactly_ the same. He squints, brings his nose closer, tries to see if one is photocopied. But they're not. They're both pages torn out of a notebook with the exact same tree on them twice.

What the hell was Lydia doing?

There's a third piece of paper.

Stiles sees it only a few yards or so in front of him. He frowns. He's not liking how confusing this is. But he goes and picks up the third sheet. It's exactly like the first two.

Stiles frown grows deeper as he looks up to see yet another paper. He does the same with it as the last three and another piece is waiting for him just ahead again when he's done. This is ridiculous.

It's like a trail of breadcrumbs, except its little drawings of the same tree over and over again.

Stiles follows the trail. His life is already a fairytale. Why not?

 _Because something is going to jump out and maim you_ , a very reasonable voice that sounds like his own says in his head. _That's why. It's happened to people before._ Several _people._

That seems like a valid concern and Stiles stops walking to consider it.

 _Nothing is going to hurt you. Keep walking_ , another voice says.

That sounds good, too. Stiles is going to do that.

So he keeps walking. And he keeps picking up papers.

After a while he starts wondering why he's doing this.

_To get to the end of the trail._

Oh, yeah, that's right.

He keeps walking.

After another while he starts feeling like something is off. Not wrong, not exactly. He doesn't sense any danger or threat, but something feels…. _strange_.

Stiles stares down at the most recent drawing of the tree in his hands and tries to think.

What seems off about this? Why would looking at this picture seem totally out of place somehow? Why would walking through the woods alone seem like a bad idea? Why does this _whole_ situation seem completely implausible for some reason?

Wait a minute.

Stiles breathes in sharply, taking in the thick lines of pencil that shape the tree on the page. That's it. That's what's wrong. He shouldn't be able to _see_.

He's _blind_. Deucalion _blinded_ him in the alley behind the bank; he shouldn't be able to see at all let alone follow a mysterious trail through the forest for hours on end. That strikes a chord in him, too, and his head snaps up sharply.

Stiles' head whips around to stare out into the never-ending forest of trees, trees, trees, but none of them are the tree he's looking for, the tree on the papers, the papers that shouldn't be here in the middle of the woods where he shouldn't be all alone because he is _blind_ \--

This is a dream.

It finally clicks into place and Stiles realizes: _this is a dream_.

A crunching sound behind him startles him and turns around to see the tree branches twisting and bending and _reaching for him_. The calm, quiet forest has suddenly turned violent and Stiles doesn't know what exactly is causing it, but he knows he's not sticking around to find out.

He runs.

There are still papers on the ground and he follows them without stopping, he doesn't know why, but he thinks they might be safe, the papers haven't hurt him, so he follows them. He follows them and he hopes that whatever is at the end of their trail is better than what's behind him. Because behind him the woods are rapidly turning grotesque and monstrous. The bark grays and cracks and the trunks open up to reveal roaring abysses and the limbs have fingers and claws and the roots erupt from the ground like the risen dead and Stiles _runs_.

He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows he wants to get to the end of the papers' trail. He wants to find the tree he's been looking for without even knowing why he was looking in the first place. He needs to find where the papers stop. He _will_ find whatever it is at the end of the trail. He _has_ to.

He's glancing over his shoulder to see how close the unnatural force compelling the trees is getting and that's when he trips.

He falls flat onto his stomach. Instinctively he covers his head, closing his eyes tightly and hoping for the best.

Nothing happens. No possessed tree grabs him and rips him apart.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks behind him. Everything is calm and still and normal.

Shifting around to sit properly Stiles presses a hand down onto the ground to push himself up and it's that sensation of rough wood against his palm that makes him realize that it's not earth he's sitting on.

It's a huge tree stump.


	3. My Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, forgive me! I'll try to get more up soon!

The size of the tree stump Stiles is sitting in the middle of is absolutely _unreal_. It's enormous and totally out of place for the Beacon Hills Preserve and its tall, skinny trees.

There's some moss growing on it and some random sort of bramble stuff in a few places and a total of zero things about the tree besides its size strike him as remarkable.

So it's a big tree. Stiles doesn't get it. But whatever it is, it's keeping the evil trees away. The forest looks almost like it did at the beginning of Stiles' dream. He could almost be fooled into thinking he's not in danger anymore. But when he looks up at the sky, there's an unnatural tinge to it warped and gray and _angry_ in a way Stiles didn't know the sky could be.

So whatever was chasing him through the trees-- _with_ the trees, that is--hasn't given up. It just can't touch him while he's being protected. By a giant stump.

Clearly the size of it isn't the only strange thing about this particular tree stump. Evidence would suggest there's a supernatural quality of sorts to it as well.

Stiles scrutinizes the tree, tries to see if he can suss out what makes it so special, but it just looks like a hunk of wood to him, a tree that got chopped down what was probably a long time ago. Once upon a time it probably looked pretty cool, big and wide with sprawling branches that looked like they could touch the sky. It probably looked a little something like the tree in Lydia's drawings.

 _Wait a minute_.

Stiles scrabbles for one of the papers he tucked into his pockets jerking it up to his face. Studying the image closely he tries to put the pieces together. These papers and their breadcrumb trail led him to this tree. This tree must be the tree in the drawings.

But, no, that doesn't really look right to him. The remains he's sitting on would have been twice the size of the tree in the drawing, the branches would have been thick, as thick as some of the trunks of the other trees in the forest. The sketch's tree looks far too scraggly to resemble what the stump must have once looked like. It's all too thin, too spread out. In fact now that Stiles is looking at it more closely, he's beginning to think there's an abnormal number of twigs peeling off from the main limbs. He glances around at some other specimens and proves that line of thinking. He's no botanist, but trees just don't have that many small branches. The longer he stares at it, the less it looks like a tree to him. It's all wrong. It can't be a tree.

 _Then what the hell is it?_ he thinks.

He looks down at the chopped away pedestal he's sitting on, eyes wandering until they focus in on one of the enormous veins of roots that sink into the earth.

"Holy crap," Stiles says aloud as the answer stares right back at him.

He flips the piece of paper upside down and that's it, that's _exactly_ it. It's the _roots_. Of course, it is! It's all that's left of the tree he's sitting on. _That's_ what the trail was leading him to.

So Stiles is supposed to get in the roots then? Stiles glances between said roots and the upset sky above him and decides he'll take his chances with the eerie papers and begins to look for a way to get under the tree.

He finds it easily enough because there are doors. Doors that happen to be about five yards away from the stump. Great.

Stiles throws up one more mindful glance at the churning sky and makes a break for it. It's sort of like one of those natural disaster movies when he does. In the short space between the tree and the doors a storm like an oncoming tornado erupts. It's violent and terrible and Stiles isn't sure he's going to make it, which is _stupid_ , because it's _right there_. He fights against the winds that are attempting to blow him away into nothingness, crawling along the ground with all his might, all his _will_.

The doors fling open just as he reaches them and Stiles is positive _something_ out here is trying to help him. Or at least he hopes that's the case and this isn't all some malevolent trap.

Stiles goes tumbling in, hitting the stairs on the way down, and crashing to the ground in a pile of limbs.

"Ow…" he whines, then rights himself and begins checking for any major injury. Then he remembers he' in a dream and stops.

He looks around the room he fell into; it appears to be an abandoned root cellar. The chamber is full of shelves, all dusty with dirt and long forgotten remains of a life. He wonders who it belonged to.

Something catches his attention and Stiles walks further into the cellar to get a better look at it. On the largest root framing the room Stiles sees what appears to be a symbol of some sort. A knot. Celtic, if he's not mistaken. It's what's below that really gets his attention though.

There's blood at the base of the root. Old and dried and part of the tree now. But the stain is still there, large and still clearly visible even in the dim lighting of the cellar.

Stiles crouches down to look at it, expression crumpling into sadness. Blood only makes him think of one thing now. Not of death or violence or injury. It makes him think of Cor. Of the solid, reassuring presence of the wolf that has been absent so long now. Stiles misses him and wants him back desperately, now more than ever because of the Alpha Pack's activities. Tears sting his eyes, but he won't let them fall. It won't help bring Cor back.

Stiles turns his mind away from his sorrow and instead to someone else's. He wonders whose blood this is, who died here, and why. He thinks it's kind of fitting that he's seeing this past tragedy and thinking of Cor here, since it's in a dream that he last (almost) saw Cor.

A minute.

Stiles' clever mind starts racing, shooting off into a thousand different directions, but he knows the one he wants and he follows it and finds this: _something_ in this dream has been pushing him toward this tree, toward this cellar, toward this root. _Why?_

Maybe--just maybe--because this tree is a _magical tree_ and someone could perform summonings here and get good results.

_Maybe it's trying to tell him he can get Cor back._

Stiles reaches for the old, familiar place where he used to carry his knife for summoning Cor. It's there and he knows with a deep, compelling certainty that _this_ is why he's here, why he was brought here, even if he still has no idea who led him here.

The blade flicks out with ease and Stiles draws a long line across his palm that wells up with red liquid life as the metal passes by.

Moving higher up the tree, because he doesn't want to disturb whoever experienced death here, Stiles places his palm against the root and thinks of Cor.

A howl bursts through the air seeming to come from every direction, but the sound of feet hitting the ground comes from the doorway and Stiles whips his head around to stare in hope and awe as a figure appears there and bounds smoothly down the steps into the basement.

He knows this is a dream, but he also knows that somehow this is _real_ and Cor is standing right in front of him, panting happily and waiting on Stiles to get his butt in gear.

"Cor," Stiles breathes out and then he takes his hand off the tree and practically falls on top of the wolf in his rush to get to him.

Cor yips excitedly and nudges at Stiles' face and sniffs in his ear and wriggles all over as Stiles wraps his arms around him and just holds him. The warm clay feeling is something he missed more than he realized and Stiles presses his face into Cor's neck and just squeezes.

The ground starts shaking.

Stiles jerks back and sees the walls of the root cellar vibrating, the wooden support beams shuddering, and the room beginning to fall apart all around them.

"Cor!" he shouts and the wolf is at attention immediately. "We've got to get out of here! Let's go!"

The two of them start running for the exit. Debris is crashing down all around them and a strut snaps and almost swings down right into Stiles' face. A portion of ceiling caves in accordingly causing Cor to zigzag around it. They just keep moving. Tripping and stumbling and dodging, but they keep going.

By some miracle the teen makes it up the stairs before they buckle. Stiles scrambles hand and foot to get out of the collapsing chamber below him. It's only when he turns around that he realizes that Cor isn't with him.

Cor is still in the cellar, but the staircase is gone and it's too far for him to jump to the top of the hole.

"Cor!" Stiles yells, panic filling him. He's not prepared to lose him, not when he's just gotten him back.

A veritable maelstrom rages around Stiles above ground. He should probably get back to the tree stump where it's safe, but he can't. He can't leave Cor.

The bones of the cellar make a great, groaning noise, the kind of sound that always preludes the collapse of something enormous. Cor cries, low and mournful.

Stiles can only watch as the structure finally crumbles right under his hands. The cellar is gone and with it, Cor.

"No," Stiles sobs, bent over the disaster zone that used to be the cellar. His hands grip the edge in helpless anger and the wind buffets his body hard enough to hurt, but he can't bring himself to move. The unnatural storm and the screeching forest surrounding him are going to destroy him and he's too weak to stop it. The ground begins to shift under him and he knows it's trying to open up and swallow him whole, but he can't stop that either. All he can do is lay there, bereft and broken, and wait to be taken, too.

Suddenly a bolt of lightning comes down from the sky with a great splitting sound and Stiles thinks, _This is it._

But nothing happens.

The roaring wind stops abruptly and everything goes still. Stiles has _no_ idea what's just happened, but he raises his head ever so slightly to peak out at the forest. He spots a smoldering patch of blackened earth a few feet from him, where the lightning bolt surely struck. His attention gets torn away from it, when the ghostly sound of a primitive chanting floats up from the trees. Stiles' head jerks toward the great stump and he stops cold when he sees what lay beyond it.

Bodies. Fifteen of them. All tied to a different tree, their throats cut, and their eyes staring at him lifeless and afraid.

Utter terror consumes him as he realizes he recognizes nearly half of them, just before a piercing scream shakes the very foundation of the forest.


	4. My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWW LAPTOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!! WE ARE BACK IN BUSINESS, PEOPLE.
> 
> Oh my god, my life's blood...I finally have it back...*sobs*
> 
> In case you missed it, folks, I got a new laptop, so we are up, up, and away again! Off into the great, blue yonder!! TO INFINITY--AND BEYOND!!!
> 
> Don't mind me over here.
> 
> Please forgive me for the delay and please enjoy the new chapter (it's a bit longer than usual~)!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for some hardcore manipulation. Like bad, yo. Approach with caution.

When the Sheriff gets word that the body of a white male, late teens has been found by the public pool, his whole world stops turning. The only reason he manages to keep going at all is because Chris Argent grabs him by the arms and tells him, "We don't know it's him. We _don't_ know it's _him_."

That's just enough to get him behind the wheel of the cruiser and drive it. He keeps his mind carefully void of all thoughts that are not the road ahead of him. Otherwise he'll start imagining all the possible scenarios and he will lose his goddamn mind once and for all.

It takes less than ten minutes to get to the crime scene. Because that's what it is: a crime scene. It's obvious even before he gets close to the body by the river of blood drooling over the pool's edge and into the empty basin. The pool doesn't open for another three weeks, there shouldn't have been anyone here. Then again that's probably exactly what the murderer was thinking.

He thinks someone is talking to him as he walks up to the lifeguard's chair, but he can't bother to listen to them. He has to see for himself. One way or another.

He rounds the side of the chair and braces himself for the worst as he looks up into the face of the boy sitting there.

It's not Stiles.

The young man's throat has been slit, which explains the large amount of blood. He's bound to the chair with some sort of wire and he hangs limply to one side. His eyes are open, large and lifeless. Afraid. It's a horrendous scene.

Despite this the Sheriff's every fiber floods with relief and he turns to his deputies, rattles off some perfunctory orders, and then heads back over to Argent, who is waiting outside the facility.

Chris is looking at him blankly waiting for him to say something first.

"It's not him. I've got men on this. Let's you and me keep looking."

Chris nods without a word and climbs back into the cruiser's passenger side.

 

Meanwhile nearly every werewolf in Beacon Hills is making a mad dash toward Lydia and her soul-shattering scream. It's a strange feeling. The force that compels them all to follow her call. A few of the wolves recognize the voice as belonging to her and would be running toward it anyway. But something else is there, too, something just under their skin that makes them itch with the need to find the source of the wail.

Derek gets there first, because being the Alpha, he's the fastest runner amongst those in the woods . He finds Lydia standing by her car on the side of the road, alarmingly with one of the twins. He and Lydia may not have a sterling past together, but that doesn't mean he's going to let her fall prey to one of the Alphas.

"Lydia!" he shouts. "Get away from him!"

Lydia looks at Derek with wide eyes and her bottom lip quivers like she's trying to speak, but can't quite make the rest of her mouth work. The twin lowers his hands from where they were covering his ears and looks at him in plain bewilderment.

Derek's really not sure what in the ever-loving hell is going on, but he puts himself between them and snarls at the other Alpha anyway.

A small hand lands on his back. "Derek, no, it's okay, it's…"

"Why is he here?" Derek demands without looking back at her.

Aiden is still just standing there staring at them stupidly.

"He was helping look for Stiles," Lydia says. "I asked him to."

" _What?_ " Derek snaps and rounds on her. "What were you thinking, you stupid, naive, little girl? They're probably the ones who took him!"

Lydia looks taken aback momentarily by Derek's words. Then her expression hardens and she cocks a hip and says, "They're not the ones who took him, Derek. Ethan told Scott as much and Scott didn't detect a lie."

"They probably know how to mask a lie, Lydia!" Derek growls.

"We don't," Aiden pipes up. Derek turns to glare at him. "We were too young to learn from anyone in our pack before we became Alphas and Deucalion thought it was better if it stayed that way. And we didn't take your mate. I had no idea he was missing until Allison told us on the phone. And I wouldn't say Lydia "asked" me to help."

Derek snorts like an angry bull in the matador's ring. He's done with this stupidity. Whatever Lydia thinks asking an enemy for help was or wasn't doesn't matter right now. No one's life is immediately at stake here except _Stiles'_.

To Lydia he says, "What was that scream about?"

Lydia's face falls and she looks almost afraid again. "I don't….I don't really know, I just…"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You just...screamed?"

Lydia nods helplessly.

"Okay. Why here then? On the side of the road?"

Lydia starts shaking her head and Derek frowns at her. He's about to start being a lot less nice about asking questions, when Aiden chimes in again.

"She doesn't know that either."

Derek looks at him, a single brow raised.

Aiden shrugs. "She says she was following the GPS, but the GPS wasn't on. I don't know what the hell happened."

Derek's frown only deepens. His consideration of Lydia will have to wait for another time though. Because just then a feeling strikes Derek like lightning. He feels like he's being called.

The Alpha surges forward in a swift rush of limbs following the call without thought. It pulls from deep within in him and reminds him of how it felt when both he and Cor were called to Stiles by blood and by bond.

There's no blood this time, just Stiles, curled over his knees in the middle of an enormous tree stump. He appears to be perfectly unscathed aside from a few scrapes on his muddy feet from walking barefoot through the woods.

Stiles' head snaps up when Derek crashes through the edge of trees that circle the stump. He breathes almost violently, air shaking its way out of his throat like it's a pinball bouncing its way out. The sight of the grimy bandages hiding his eyes is the only thing that stops Derek in time from bowling right into the teen without warning. Stiles stares in his direction, unseeing and afraid.

"D...Derek?" he whispers.

" _Stiles_ ," Derek answers and destroys the distance between them so he can sweep Stiles up in arms, safe again, safe again, _safe again_.

"D-Derek, I was dreaming a-and…"

"What happened?" Derek demands, brushing his hands over Stiles' hair repeatedly as he pulls back to look at him. "How did you get here?"

"I...I don't know, I'm not even sure where here is, I--" Stiles stops abruptly and if Derek could see them he's positive Stiles' eyes would be lighting up with the spark of realization. "Am I sitting on a big tree stump? Like a really, really big one?"

Derek glances down. He already knows that's the case, but he's wondering how Stiles knows.

Slowly he replies, "Yes…"

Stiles' mouth falls open in wonder and then suddenly he's grabbing Derek by the arms and saying, "Cut my hand open. Do it."

"What?" Derek responds, incredulous. "No. I'm getting you out of here and back to the hospital. You disappeared without a damn trace, Stiles. It's not safe for you to be out here, when something brought you here without any of us even noticing."

"No, Derek, you don't understand, I saw Cor. I saved him!" Stiles argues. "In the dream I was at this tree and-and there was this cellar and I put my blood on the tree and it brought Cor back and--we have to go in the cellar. Come on."

Stiles is already rising to his feet and tugging Derek away from the tree, even as Derek tries to process everything he just heard.

"Come on, Derek, find the doors to the cellar, come on!"

"Stiles, no," he says, yanking back on Stiles' grip and halting the boy. "It was just a dream. Come on, let's go back to the hospital."

"Derek, no. It was a _vision_. I can save Cor here, just like I did in the dream. That's what it was trying to tell me by bringing me to the tree!"

"Stiles, do you hear yourself?" Derek demands, clamping down on Stiles' pulling hands. "You're just going to go bleed all over a damn tree because some _thing_ in a dream told you to?"

"But Derek, if I can bring Cor back, I--"

"No! Stiles. We're going back to the hospital." Derek starts dragging Stiles back toward the direction he came. Lydia and Aiden are standing there watching the exchange with worried expressions. Lydia is worried, because they're fighting, he imagines, but Aiden--Aiden can probably smell the same thing Derek can. _Ozone_ , like lightning and storm clouds and hot metal. The smell is coming off of Stiles like he might summon a thunderstorm any minute now. The witch smells _charged_ , which any werewolf worth his salt knows on an instinctual level cannot be good.

"Derek, don't make me do this," Stiles says, straining against Derek's grip.

"Do _what_?" Derek snaps angrily right before Stiles rushes forward and places his hands on Derek's chest.

As soon as he touches him Derek knows exactly what he's doing.

The link shoots through his body like a string of firecrackers popping off, setting off the big one at the end, right at the base of his skull, that explodes and causes his whole nervous system to short out. That's exactly what Stiles wanted apparently because the next thing Derek knows his mate is taking control of his body.

"Find the cellar door, Derek," Stiles commands.

And Derek does, takes off in the direction of the wooden doors he spotted as soon as Stiles mentioned them. Stiles grasps his hand tightly, following along beside him as Derek's feet move against his will.

"Stiles, don't!" Lydia yells behind them. Aiden stops her from going after them though which is probably for the best. Neither of them are really in control right now; Stiles driven wild by the twisted happenings of a dream and Derek--

Derek is nothing more than a puppet on a string.

Something strange happens to Derek's vision for an instant. It's like it's split in two, like the image of the approaching cellar entrance got broken up and put onto separate pieces of mirror side by side. He hears Stiles gasp and once his vision sorts itself out, he can see that Stiles is ripping the bandages away. He just can't figure out why. But then Stiles is turning around to look at him.

His eyes are bright Alpha red. They read of shock, but in an instant they change to manic glee and then he's darting forward again, toting Derek's marionnette body behind him.

With a single-minded madness Stiles drags them all the way down into the root cellar.

The root cellar.

Derek's brain kicks into high gear and the memories move in like a flood befitting of Noah and his ark. He remembers this place. He remembers what happened here. He remembers who _died_ here. He knows exactly whose blood is staining the root that Stiles brings them to. He had forgotten this, forgotten _her_ \--locked the memory away with his mother's help--but now the sight of blood that Derek spilled with his own claws turns the memories into a series of sensations that are overwhelmingly real. Suddenly Derek can feel the warm slickness on his hands again; the roiling sensation of the act burning a path through him as the color of his eyes changed; and the body of his first love cradled in his arms, cold with death.

Then he snaps back to the present because his hands really _are_ wet with blood, but this time it's the blood of his last love coating them. But this time there's no begging for mercy. _This time_ the person he loves simply turns Derek's hand over and uses it like a knife to cut his flesh open himself.

Soundlessly Derek watches on in horror, a mere prop in this grotesque play. He's not quite able to wrap his mind around what's happening, that in some warped way the past is repeating itself. That once again he's making the one he loves bleed in this abhorrent place, but that _again_ it's what they want. How can it always be what they want? Derek is sick to his stomach as the answer comes to him. As he realizes that he will _never_ escape this role. That his one great, cruel purpose in life is to hurt everyone he loves.

Completely unaware of Derek's psychological turmoil, Stiles presses his bloody palm to the root and swivels to look behind them excitedly.

Nothing happens.

Stiles' face falls and he glances around with his borrowed sight like the answer to creating life will be waiting for him in this miserable place that only brings death.

"Maybe...maybe it needs your blood, too! Because it's to summon Cor, right? Derek put yours on here, too!"

And Derek does, helpless to stop Stiles from commanding him.

Still nothing happens.

The crackle of electricity in the air fizzles out pitifully. Stiles says, "I don't understand...It worked in the dream…"

Peter comes running down the steps then, eyes wide in alarm. He takes one look at them and says, "Stiles! Stop it. Release him right now, what do you think you're doing?"

Stiles looks at Derek like he's just noticing him for the first time. The lax, hollow expression on Derek's face seems to hit him like a ton of bricks and he drops Derek's wrist like it burned him. Their synchronization snuffs out and Stiles' vision does likewise a beat later.

He's submerged into darkness again, but the tension in the air is still as readable as ever. He hears Derek breathe in and out deeply a few times as he regains control over himself. Peter doesn't say anything from where he stands, assuming he's still standing there at all.

"Don't…" Derek begins, voice terse and forced. "Don't you _ever_ do that to me again."

"Derek, I'm sorry," Stiles pleads. What he's done finally comes rushing at him all at once and he knows it's inexcusable, controlling Derek-- _Derek of all people_ \--like that, but he still has to try to apologize. "I'm so, so sorry, but I thought it would bring Cor back like in the dream--"

"Yeah, well, it didn't," Derek snaps. "It was just a dream, Stiles."

"Yeah, I...guess so…" Stiles says softly. He had hoped it wasn't. What else was the point of all that?

Oh, right. The bodies.

"Derek, there, there were these bodies in the dream though and it--"

"I don't want to hear it," Derek says and Stiles can tell he's turned his back on him by the way the sound of his voice changes.

"Derek," Peter says suddenly, urgently. "Are you _okay_?"

"Fine," Derek spits.

He doesn't sound fine. Stiles wishes he could see his face, could see whatever Peter is seeing that is making that thread of apprehension appear in the older werewolf's voice.

"Do you remember...this place...?" Peter asks. _Carefully_ , even. What could possibly cause Peter Hale to treat anyone carefully?

"Yes," Derek bites out.

"I was afraid of that," Peter mutters, then takes a step toward him, hand reaching out. "Let's just get you…"

"I said I'm fine!" Derek roars. Stiles can feel the sudden shift in air as the werewolf advances on his uncle, can hear the snarl as he bares his teeth at him. Then Derek says, "Get him back to the hospital and back to the Sheriff."

"Where are you going?" Peter asks, watching Derek stride toward the exit.

Derek doesn't answer him, just keeps walking.

"Derek!" Stiles calls out, cautiously taking a step in the direction of the stairs. "Derek, please don't leave, I'm sorry!"

His answer is resounding silence.

"Stiles," Peter says softly from right beside him.

Stiles jumps, but turns his head toward him. Peter gently lays a hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"It's not _all_ your fault," Peter tells him. "This place, it...it brought back a bad memory. One we had both forgotten until now."

"What memory?" Stiles asks.

"The death of Derek's first love," Peter answers.

Stiles' eyes go wide and his head flicks to the rear briefly toward the crimson smudges coating the largest root. "Oh my god, the blood on the tree…"

"Yes," Peter says. "It was hers."

"And I just--oh, god," Stiles says covering his forehead with his hands. "Oh, _god_ , he's never coming back, is he? I just screwed this up royally. He's never going to forgive me and he's never coming back."

"He'll come back," Peter says and starts walking them toward the door. "A werewolf can't stay away from his mate for long. But as for him forgiving you, well…"

"Oh, god," Stiles whimpers.

"Careful on the stairs now," is all Peter says in return.


	5. What You Hear Through the Grapevine (Or a Tree)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time again! Explanations time!! That's right! It's time to get some answers about that CRA-ZY tree!!
> 
> But no really, my apologies, but this chapter's a slow one full of learning. It has to be done. Things need to be known. There is a teeny tiny bit of the plot moving forward, but meh. It's mostly talking. Hope you enjoy it anyway!

Stiles is sitting with Peter and Cora in his hospital room, waiting for his dad and Deaton to arrive. The veterinarian was called in to consult on the whole tree ordeal and offer what he knows. Peter had admitted he couldn't remember the tree well enough to answer any of Stiles' questions. Talia had apparently taken away the memory of it--a memory that obviously found its way back--from both Derek and Peter after Paige's death.

Paige. That had been her name. The girl that Derek had loved. The young cellist that Ennis had bitten so she and Derek could be together forever. The life that had caused his eyes to turn the blue of a killer, when the Derek had ended her life in that very cellar, because she had begged him to--because the bite that Derek had wished upon her hadn't taken.

Peter told Stiles _all_ about it.

The intense aroma of guilt wafting off of Stiles at the close of the tale is enough that Cora flicks him in the head and tells him, "You're drowning us in your misery stink. Stop it."

It brings a half-hearted smile to Stiles' face as if in apology and he wonders for a second if it's strange that he's sitting in a hospital room with Cora and Peter Hale instead of Scott or his father.

The Sheriff comes in soon enough though and bustles Stiles up into a hug that rivals werewolf strength.

Stiles tells him he's fine, that Deaton is on his way to help sort out what happened. Peter greets the Sheriff jovially and tries to introduce himself; Stiles flails around blindly until he finds Peter's arm and latches onto it like a monkey to stop him from shaking his father's hand.

"Really, Stiles," Peter sighs.

"Really, Peter," Stiles hisses.

Cora rolls her eyes at the whole exchange.

Stiles explains to his dad that he hopes Deaton can tell him what his dream meant.

"What do you think it meant?" the Sheriff asks.

"I don't know," Stiles says quietly. Everything in him is telling him that that dream was a vision, a warning. But then nothing had come of trying to bring Cor back in the real world, so he isn't so sure. Derek had told him it was just a dream and Stiles is starting to believe him. Maybe it really was all just a result of his strange subconscious. He mumbles, "Maybe it didn't mean anything. Maybe it's just a coincidence."

Deaton chooses that moment to appear in the doorway and say, "I highly doubt it was a coincidence, Stiles. Considering it involved the nemeton."

"The nem-uh-what?" Stiles asks.

"The nemeton," Deaton repeats, glancing at each of the room's occupants. "The tree that you found. Or rather the tree that found _you_."

"Dr. Deaton. Please. Now is not the time for you and your cryptic riddle-speak," Stiles says huffily.

"Of course," Deaton says mildly, taking the chair that the Sheriff offers him with a small thank you. "It's actually very important that you understand what the nemeton is. Why don’t you tell me about your dream first?”

Stiles relays all of the details to Deaton. Well. Almost all the details. He doesn't reveal the identities of the victims he recognized. He doesn't want to cause any undue stress, so he'll wait to see what Deaton makes of it before filling everyone in on that little secret.

The veterinarian sits silently, while Stiles narrates, absorbing the information. Once Stiles is finished speaking, Deaton sits there contemplating it all for another few minutes.

Finally, Peter sighs through his nose and says, "Well?"

Deaton shoots him the sort of look that tells him exactly where a man, who should be dead, can stuff his opinions. Peter sneers at him, yet leans back into his chair to wait quietly.

Then Deaton announces, "I must say that doesn't sound good."

"What's it mean?" the Sheriff asks.

"I don't think it means anything. I think it's stated things pretty clearly actually. The nemeton called Stiles out into the forest to warn him of what’s to come.”

"Hang on," John says, throwing up a hand. "You're telling me that a tree called my son out into the forest in the middle of the night...to give him a message?"

"Yes, that's exactly what happened," Deaton says seriously.

"Are you kidding me?” the Sheriff guffaws. “A tree is communicating with people?”

“It’s not as strange as you may think, Sheriff. The nemeton is a great source of power capable of a great many things, dealing out visions just one of many.”

“So it was a vision,” Stiles confirms.

“Very much so,” Deaton agrees. “Dreams are a very common way for a nemeton to transmit visions."

"So what's a nemeton exactly? Besides a creepy tree that invades people's dreams without their permission?" Stiles asks.

Deaton answers with a question. "Have you ever heard of ley lines before Stiles?”

Stiles shakes his head.

Deaton explains, “The vast majority of the earth's natural energy comes from none other than the earth's own electric currents, scientifically: telluric currents. That energy runs along invisible paths called ley lines. These ley lines intersect at random points all over the globe, and when they do, they create a super-concentrated singular point of energy. This point is called a nemeton.

“A nemeton is an access point, a place where someone can draw out the earth’s power and use it for their own purposes. It is so valuable, it is regarded as a “sacred place” by these people who call on its power.”

Stiles' eyebrows climb. Not that anyone can tell under the fresh bandages. "You mean people with magic. People like you and me? Druids and witches."

"Yes. But no. I'm no longer magically active. And neither is the nemeton. Or so I thought."

"Care to expand on that?" Sheriff Stilinski asks from where he's leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He doesn’t have much patience for all this supernatural mumbo-jumbo.

"Of course, Sheriff," Deaton says amiably. "Normally, a nemeton serves as a site for performing rituals. Typically the rituals are performed by druids and typically the rituals are benevolent. Druids will offer up some form of energy in exchange for the use of the nemeton's power. The nemeton reacts to their rituals, providing good fortune and protection to the town or area that the nemeton influences. To put it simply: good things happen to the nemeton, good things happen to the town."

Stiles intones darkly, "But the opposite is true, too. Isn't it?"

"Yes. If bad things happen to the nemeton, bad things happen to the town."

"Bad things like someone cutting it down?" Stiles says pointedly. _Bad things like the protectorate family of Beacon Hills being burned alive_ , he thinks sadly.

"Yes."

"Who cut it down?" the Sheriff asks.

Deaton cuts a glance at the Sheriff. "That's not really important. What's important is that the nemeton stopped functioning when it was cut down. Its life was effectively ended and it stopped being able to channel the earth’s power. But something has clearly given the nemeton new life and caused it to be active again."

"What sort of something?" Cora asks suspiciously.

Deaton's expression remains perfectly neutral as he addresses one and one person only. "Stiles. What do _you_ think brought it back?"

“What…I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I just learned about this thing five minutes ago.”

“Think about it, Stiles,” Deaton urges. “What did I tell you about the balance of magic?”

“For everything taken something must be given in return," Stiles recites.

“Correct. Now what if I told you that there is a limited supply of power in the world? A set amount of power that can never increase or decrease. What would you think then?”

“That...it’s like the law of conservation of mass. Power can never be created or destroyed...only altered?”

“Exactly. Altered into something that a _human_ can use. So think of it like sunlight being converted into electricity through a solar panel. You can’t use the sunlight, but you _can_ use electricity. To power any number of things. So if the give and take of magic is a trade and the trade must be equal, what could you trade to gain more power, Stiles?”

"Um...blood?" Stiles guesses. If his sacrifice made to defeat Kate is anything to go by, he thinks that's a pretty good guess.

“Very good. Now. What brought the nemeton back to life?”

Stiles takes a moment to think about all the things he knows about power and magic. He thinks about what Deaton just told him about the mystical law of conservation. He thinks about the blood he sacrificed from his own body to power Cor's Alpha form. He thinks about nothing happening when he tried to offer his blood on the roots of the nemeton. It hadn't been enough, he realizes. No wonder nothing had happened. A few drops of blood in exchange for Cor's corporeal existence? That was like trying to pay for a palace with pennies. According to Deaton he would need to trade much, much more to pull Cor out of his dreams. The trade has to be equal. An eye for an eye and a life for a--

"Oh my god." A sense of alarm flares up in the teen as it hits him. " _Paige_."

"Paige?" the Sheriff questions.

"Yes, I believe that's what happened," Deaton says to Stiles. Then to the Sheriff he explains, "Paige was a young girl killed in the root cellar under the nemeton roughly ten years ago. When she died over its roots, her blood, her life, her _sacrifice_ , jumpstarted the tree's power. Her life for the nemeton's."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" John asks warily. "I thought the nemeton was supposed to protect people?"

Deaton smiles thinly. "That's the catch. The nemeton is inherently neutral actually. It seeks balance and it will freely lend power to either side, good or evil, if it will restore the balance. However, if things are already balanced, the nemeton will not act at all. Not without a push."

"A push," the Sheriff repeats.

Stiles nods in understanding. "Like the druid's rituals. That was a push toward doing good."

"So a push toward doing bad...?" the Sheriff asks.

Deaton smiles grimly. "That's the catch I mentioned. I believe there is someone in Beacon Hills, who plans to use the nemeton for strictly dark purposes. That's why the nemeton has reached out to our young witch here. To counteract that "evil" with his "good" and maintain the balance. Stiles, I must warn you though. Whatever it is that's attempting to tap into the nemeton? It appears it doesn't want you to interfere."

"You mean that's what was trying to kill me," Stiles states with certainty. "In the dream. That's what was controlling the forest and what brought the root cellar down and made that big storm. It was whatever is sucking on the nemeton's power for "dark purposes"."

"I believe so. Whatever it is clearly didn't want you to bring Cor back with you into the land of the wakeful, likely knowing that having him would give you an advantage over them. I believe that was the nemeton’s original intention actually, when it called you to it. To return Cor to you and give you the upper hand. But you were stopped. So the nemeton went to Plan B: warning you about the fifteen human sacrifices.”

“ _Human sacrifices?!_ ” Stiles shouts. “You didn’t think to lead with _human sacrifices?_ ”

Deaton ignores Stiles’ outrage. “The fifteen sacrifices are part of an old dark ritual for gaining power-- _immense_ power. Stiles, this is very important: if those rituals start, you’re in trouble. Remember how there’s a limited supply of power? Well, the "bad guy" is going to take it all. The nemeton will fall under the sole control of the person performing the sacrifices and no one else in all of Beacon Hills will be able to draw power from the earth until they're stopped. You won’t be able to bring Cor back.”

" _What?!_ " Stiles screeches. "What do you mean? I thought I could bring Cor back on my own without any help! I don't need the tree! I just had to "recharge" or whatever!”

"That's not the case anymore, Stiles. By trapping Cor in the cellar in your dream, this person has blocked your direct route to him. You can still get Cor back, but it will come at a much higher cost now. Your own power won't be able to cut it anymore. You'll need to borrow power from somewhere else. The same goes for your eyesight. Blindness is no easy thing to cure, but if you borrowed some power from the nemeton, you could do it easily. But if the sacrifices start you won’t be able to do any of that. You’ll be reduced to the simplest of magic, only what your own energy can provide.”

“But as long as I can stop the first sacrifice, I’ve still got a chance, right?” Stiles demands.

“Yes.”

“Good, so we just stop the first sacrifice. I saw the faces of all the victims. We’ll figure this out. No problem.”

The Sheriff clears his throat. Stiles looks in his direction.

"What? Dad, _what?_ "

"I, uh...I think those sacrifices may have already started…"

"What do you mean, Sheriff?" Deaton asks gravely.

"We found a young man murdered at the public pool this evening. Throat slit. Bound to a lifeguard chair."

Stiles blanches. "That's like in the dream."

John agrees, "I had thought of that, too, when you told us about it. But there was something strange about the murder. I had a word with the coroner before I came up here. The victim had a slit throat, a bludgeoned skull, and clear signs of strangulation most likely with some sort of garrote. He was killed three times over. Now doesn't that just sound like overkill to you?"

"No," Stiles says immediately, mouth set in a grim line. "Those three things are exactly what happened to the Lindow Man. It's the threefold death."

Deaton nods. “I agree. The threefold death was a common method of ritual human sacrifice amongst several ancient peoples.”

“Oh, god,” Stiles groans helplessly. "I’m screwed."

“You must have forced their hand,” Deaton asserts. “They probably aimed to trap you in your dream with Cor so you wouldn't be a problem for them anymore. But Miss Martin's scream woke you before they had another chance. Since they failed there, they had to succeed here. So they made the first sacrifice before you could stop them.”

"Do you at least have any idea what kind of supernatural something or other we're looking for?" John asks.

"Someone who looks perfectly normal, I imagine," Deaton says.

The Sheriff sighs. "Great. There’s _got_ to be _something_ else we can do. Something we can look for."

“I’m afraid I’m out of answers,” Deaton says. “Peter, do you know anything useful?”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m afraid all this druid stuff isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

That effectively ends the conversation and all eyes turn to Stiles, waiting for him to respond, while he breathes harshly through his nose for a few seconds.

The Sheriff speaks up hesitantly, clearly at a loss, “Stiles…”

“No. You know what? I need to do some research. That's what I need to do right now. Dad, can you bring me my laptop?”

"Stiles, son," the Sheriff begins, "you can't really use it right now. We could probably get some program that reads out loud, I guess, but--"

"No, I can still use it normally," Stiles insists. "When Derek and I were linked, I...I don't know, borrowed some of his vision. Or something."

Deaton raises a curious brow at this. "Really? That's quite interesting."

"Is that common?" Stiles asks.

"Not common, no, but not unheard of," the man supplies. "A werewolf and a mage pair are not uncommon and theirs is a unique bond powered by not only supernatural biology, but by magic as well. Throw in the power of an Alpha werewolf and things like that become more possible than not."

"Then I can do it again," Stiles says confidently. Then less confidently he adds, "If...if Derek will let me that is...If he ever even speaks to me again…"

Peter and Cora both roll their eyes.

"Stiles," Peter says emphatically. "My nephew is stupidly in love with you. He'll get over it and he'll come back."

"But...what I did to him was--I controlled him!" Stiles' voice is almost a shout. "Derek, who has been used by basically everyone he knows! _I_ used him! Me! His mate! How could I do that to him?"

The Sheriff comes over and rests a hand on his son's shoulder. "We all make mistakes," he tells him.

"Stiles," Deaton says, drawing the boy's attention. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were still under the influence of the nemeton, so you weren't exactly thinking clearly. The nemeton clearly wanted to return Cor to you whatever the means."

"It doesn't change what I did," Stiles says in a small voice. "It still doesn't change that he's not here now."

"Oh my god," Cora groans. "You are such a baby." She rises from her seat. "Come on, Peter. Let's go find my stupid brother and bring him back."

Peter frowns. "Why do I have to go?"

"Because nobody here wants you hanging around," Cora replies heartlessly.

Peter intentionally looks wounded for the briefest of moments. Cora stares at him blankly.

"Fine," he relents, then says, "One for the road, Stiles," leaning forward to touch Stiles' cheek and steal away any pain in his eyes. Then he's on his feet too and following his niece out the door.

"Stop wallowing while we're gone, Stilinski," Cora says as they disappear.

There's a quiet pause and then Stiles says, "I can't tell if she likes me or not."

"I have no clue," the Sheriff says.

Deaton chuckles. "I think it's safe to say she cares, at least."

"I hope so. I'll need all the help I can get."

"We'll get through this son," the Sheriff says encouragingly.

"Thanks, Dad." Stiles smiles in his direction, although it's half-hearted at best. After a long pause, he asks, "Deaton. Why me? Why did the nemeton want me for this job?"

"I still find it strange a _tree_ wants anything at all," John mutters.

Deaton smiles at the Sheriff, then tells Stiles, "Because you're one of the most powerful beings in Beacon Hills."

"I sure don't feel that way."

"I assure you, you are. I don't think the nemeton would have chosen you if you weren't powerful enough to go up against whatever this is. In fact the nemeton wouldn't even be able to open up a line of communication with you at all if you weren't magically talented. The more gifted you are, the easier it is to connect with you."

"Is that why it was able to lead me out into the woods while I was _unconscious and blind_?" Stiles asks bitterly.

"It had a lot to do with it, I'm sure," Deaton says in that deflecting tone of his. "Unfortunately, _having_ more magic makes you more susceptible _to_ magic."

"Right. Which is why that old witch that tried to eat my heart and this current guy can both get inside my dreams and mess shit up?"

"Language," the Sheriff says automatically.

"Sorry," Stiles says equally automatically.

Deaton replies, "Yes. There's a downside to everything, Mister Stilinski. But I have faith you'll figure this out."

"Thanks," Stiles says with a sigh. "...I guess."

His dad pats him on the shoulder and Stiles suddenly remembers an important detail, "Dad. I recognized some...one in the dream," barely catching himself. "One of the sacrifices. I need you to do me a favor."

"Sure. Whatever I can do to help. That's not in direct violation of my position in law enforcement," the Sheriff tacks on.

"It's totally mostly legal. Promise. You remember my friend, Heather, from elementary school?"

 


	6. Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a day off work so y'all are getting another chapter~

While Erica and Boyd are getting settled back into their old lives with the help of the Sheriff, Scott and Isaac are camped out in the hallway of the hospital on guard duty. Stiles won't be staying in the hospital more than overnight for observation, but he's under constant werewolf-watch indefinitely considering how many people in town want him dead.

Being unable to read braille or do much of anything else at all, Stiles is despondently listening to music on his laptop when Derek comes in.

The music is down low and he's not wearing headphones (he's not suicidal), so he hears the click when the door opens. He knows without needing to see that it's Derek. Whether it's just some sort of lucky guess or intuition or effect of the mate-bond, he just knows.

"Hey," Stiles says softly, after muting the music.

"Hey," Derek replies without inflection, door clicking behind him.

There's a soft rustle of clothing as Derek moves closer to the bed. He doesn't sit down, doesn't touch Stiles.

"Derek, I'm _sorry_ ," Stiles starts. "I--I screwed up really, really bad and I don't know how to make it up to you, but I'll do _anything--_ "

"Stiles, stop," Derek says tiredly.

Stiles does.

The following silence does its best to kill him.

Then Derek speaks quietly. "Peter and Cora told me that...the nemeton was probably still influencing you. I think it was, you...you didn't seem like yourself."

Stiles shrugs. He doesn't remember it too clearly, mainly just the feeling of _do or die_ spurring him on and then snapping out of it to Peter yelling at him. So that much is probably true.

"Maybe so," he says, "But Derek--"

"Stiles--" Derek interrupts. "I'm not done."

Stiles clamps down on his words and nods his head to indicate his understanding.

"Peter says he told you about Paige."

Stiles bites into his lower lip. Nods.

Derek moves to sit in a chair; Stiles hears the shift of fabric and the scrape of metal legs on cheap linoleum floor.

"I obviously have a lot of trust issues," Derek says slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I know that makes me... _difficult_ to deal with, but I thought you and I had gotten through that. I thought we could trust each other."

 _We can_ , Stiles aches to say, but he keeps his mouth shut tight.

"I know we can," Derek says, as if reading his mind. "But a lot of things have been...testing that. What happened today…It's not something I'm going to get over easily."

Stiles nods. He knows. _God_ , how he knows just how badly he screwed up.

Derek continues, "I know how much Cor means to you. He means a lot to me too. Maybe I should have listened to what you had to say about him--and about your dream--instead of dismissing it. But you shouldn't have done what you did."

"You're right," Stiles says, sensing that he has permission to speak. "You're absolutely right. I couldn't see that at the time though."

"I know. I know you were...being influenced," Derek says heavily.

"Derek," Stiles says urgently, "I need you to understand something for me. Deaton said that the more magical someone is, the more vulnerable they are to other magic. Do you remember that rose that lured me in?"

"Hard to forget."

"I had no control then, Derek. I was being pulled by magic and that is _really_ hard to fight against apparently. And you know what else? It's terrifying. Being controlled like that? What Daniel did to me, what I did to you? To have _no_ control over your own body? It's the _worst_ feeling _ever_ and I am so, _so_ sorry I did that to you.

"This time with the nemeton, I, I think I still had some control, but I couldn't think about anything else besides getting Cor back. _Literally_ anything else. Not even you...not even when I was using you. I was just willing to do whatever it took.

"Derek, I don't know what Peter and Cora told you about the guy _sacrificing_ people to gain power, but it doesn't sound good and something like this may happen again. You may have to stop me. I know you don't want to hear that, but Derek, if I go tree-crazy again, the only way for you to stop me is to _stop_ me. Knock me out. I know that's a lot to ask of you, but I don't ever want to do something like what I did to you again, so please, _please_ promise me that if I'm ever being led around again by some goddamn magical fucker you will just knock me over the head and drag me away. Please."

Stiles reaches out his hand. It hangs there in the air, palm up and waiting for what feels like eternity. Finally, _finally_ , Derek takes it, but it's not like the other times they've sought each other in this way. It's detached. A basic gesture that doesn't have any real meaning behind it. It breaks Stiles' heart, when he squeezes Derek's hand and Derek doesn't reciprocate.

"I promise," Derek says softly. As hard as it is for the young man to make such a promise, he knows he has to. It has always been Derek's role to hurt the ones he loves, but now he's finally beginning to see that sometimes he does it to keep them from getting hurt even _worse_. _That_ role is one he can accept, even though he knows firsthand how much pain it causes him to fulfill it.

"Thank you," Stiles whispers, voice thick with emotion. His hand clenches around Derek's as he tries to get a hold of himself.

Derek says, "Never use the link without my permission again."

"Of course," Stiles babbles desperately. "Of course, I promise, of course. Yes. Never again."

"Okay, then," Derek says.

Hesitantly Stiles asks, "Do you think you can ever forgive me?" It's the question that's been weighing on his mind since the moment he saw Derek's face back in the root cellar.

Derek is quiet for a moment and Stiles wishes he could see him now. "I'll need time," he answers. "But yes. Some day."

Stiles nods jerkily. "You have it. You have all the time you need."

"Not really," Derek says. "Not now. We have more important things to worry about right now."

"Peter and Cora filled you in all the way?"

Derek nods, says, "Yes."

Stiles' hand spasms in Derek's and he's terrified as he shakily gets out, "I...I want to do some research, but I--I would need to borrow your eyesight again…"

A beat of silence. "You want to use the link again."

Stiles nods and he's actually beginning to shake, he's so scared right now. Scared that Derek will reject him; that Derek will leave and never come back; or worst of all that Derek will _let_ him sync with him and he'll do something horrible to abuse his mate again.

"It...it would be helpful if I could see…but we don't have to. It's okay, if you don't want to. I'm--I'll figure something out--"

"Do it," Derek says decisively.

"O-okay," Stiles says. "I...I'm going to try doing it a little differently this time. Okay?"

"Okay."

The werewolf's flat tone of voice is giving nothing away and, god, Stiles needs to see him. Needs to be able to look into his eyes and parse his expression and dig down deep to get at what he's feeling.

Stiles focuses on their joined hands; he's going to attempt to summon the link a bit easier this time. Slower. Less dramatic.

A warmth tingles in Derek's chest and he knows it's Stiles' magic knocking. He answers and the warmth blooms suddenly, rushing to every corner of his body like a swift river. The connection notches into each and every bone and when it's satisfied, the flooding magic settles into peaceful, still waters.

Stiles smiles weakly, feeling immeasurably lucky that he was granted permission to do this again.

"I much prefer that method," Derek says blankly, merely letting his opinion be known.

"I think I'm gaining better control of it," Stiles admits. "So now, how do I--Oh."

Stiles doesn't finish his question, because Derek's vision breaks apart like it did the last time and assumedly transfers a piece over to Stiles.

"It...it does it automatically," Stiles says, reaching up to tug off the bandages.

Derek bats his hands away, so he can do it for him. "Doesn't surprise me. I'm a werewolf. It's probably my supernatural healing trying to work on your body too by lending what it can. There's perks to being bonded to a werewolf."

"Deaton said something...kind of similar. It helps that you're an Alpha."

Derek hums noncommittally. Then he's pulling the dressings away and looking into Stiles' ruby eyes. They detract from the stark lines of injury across Stiles' face, the wounds and the stitches. It's all Derek can look at.

"H-hi," Stiles says timidly.

"Hi," Derek responds.

Stiles looks up into his eyes, finally gets a good look at him. Derek's expression holds no emotion, reminiscent of their early days of acquaintance. But Stiles can see the immense pain and longing held in those hazel, tell-all orbs. They're the one place Stiles can get in; windows to the soul and all that. It's hard to look away from the dazzling irises that hold so much depth and offer so much information on Derek. They still have so much to learn about each other; Stiles didn't know about Paige before now (neither did Derek apparently); Derek doesn't know how Stiles' mother died; neither of them know what their hopes and dreams for the future were before reality came crashing down on them. But Stiles does know what Derek's eyes tell him and he knows the gargantuan burden of loneliness when he sees it. It almost makes him laugh at himself for not realizing it sooner. More than anything--more than angry or bitter or hurt--Derek is afraid. He's afraid of losing Stiles.

So Stiles tells him, "I'll be here when you get back."

It's permission to leave without feeling like he's leaving for good.  He knows Derek still needs some space, some time, to get over this; he's only here in the first place at Peter and Cora's insistence. But for him to leave Stiles behind again without any obvious outward reason like his previous fit of anger? Derek thinks Stiles will construe that as abandonment. He thinks that it will drive a wedge between them, that his need for temporary distance will create a permanent distance he can't undo. Derek doesn't know that Stiles sees it for the healing process it is, doesn't know that Stiles understands that his need for space isn't about Stiles--it's about Derek. Then there's the little fact that, regardless of what he thinks Stiles does or doesn't know, Derek--because he's _Derek_ \--believes he's being selfish by needing this. So he would never ask for it anyway. He would rather suffer than risk driving Stiles away from him. So Stiles gives this to him without having to be asked. Stiles offers him the promise of "forever" despite the wound of now.

Because Stiles is afraid of losing Derek too.

Derek breathes steadily for a few moments, then says, "I won't be far."

He wavers for a tick, then leans in and presses a brief kiss to Stiles' mouth. Then he's gone.

Stiles sighs heavily. In spite of the overwhelming urge to call him back, Stiles knows there's nothing else he can do. Derek needs to come to terms with Stiles' breach of trust on his own time in his own way. Stiles can only wait.

Well, he can wait _and_ endeavor to form some sort of feasible plan to counter the many homicidal machinations cropping up around Beacon Hills.

"Research time," Stiles mutters, flexing his fingers and then promptly attacking his keyboard.

 

The link holds all through the research binge. At half past nine when Melissa comes in and takes his laptop away and tells him to sleep, Stiles lets the connection drop and everything instantly goes dark again. He doesn't know where Derek is; the man hasn't returned yet. But Peter and Cora have night watch, so Stiles closes his sightless eyes and sleeps.

He dreams again.

He finds himself curled up in the middle of the nemeton, vision restored once more. The woods around him are calm and quiet, eerily so. He can feel a presence watching him, eyes on him at all times, as he looks around and tries to make sense of the dream.

There's nothing to make sense of really. To Stiles it looks to be where he left off last, a charred patch of earth to one side and the absence of the cellar doors beyond it.

Stiles wonders if he could dig Cor out, knows in his bones that he's still down there, trapped, but alive.

He sets a foot on the ground and immediately the wind starts to howl threateningly in a manner that resembles screaming. He's doubly sure now that Cor is only trapped and not gone and that the one watching him won't give him the chance to free him. Stiles has to stay on the nemeton if he wants to stay safe. He's pretty sure being trapped in a dream would translate to permanent coma in the real world.

The teen pulls his leg back in, sits on the stump cross-legged for a long while, considering his options. He's not really sure what he can get away with in a dream, but, remembering what Deaton first told him about power animals, he comes up with an idea that he thinks might work.

He knows he has no chance of drawing out any _new_ power from the nemeton, but perhaps a pre-existing one isn't out of the question. If most other mages' power animals are made of energy, then maybe--just maybe--Stiles can channel enough of Cor's spirit buried in the earth up through the roots of the nemeton to liberate Cor from his prison.

Stiles places his palms flat on the rough bark of the nemeton and recalls the way that Cor's power feels when it runs through him. He remembers the way Cor moves like an extension of his own being. He recreates the image of Cor in his mind's eye and _tugs_.

A blinding burst of white light breaks through one of the cracks in the tree's surface. Stiles startles, tips backwards, and loses his balance. He tumbles right off the side of the nemeton.

A mighty snapping and crackling reaches his ears, overlapped by a groaning deserving of giants. He whips his head around and sees the trees coming to life, stretching down to attack him once more.

A long branch swings down, an attempt to skewer him, he's sure. Stiles barely has time to flinch before it reaches him. But the possessed dendrite never touches him.

A terrifying growl rings out the split second before a horrible crunching sound does.

Stiles opens his eyes to stare at the sight belonging to the sound.

Cor is rending Stiles' attacker, limb from limb. He's glowing, _shining_ even. All white and light and _spirit_. The other trees shrink back from the onslaught, clearly retreating. They know they have no chance now. _It_ knows it has no chance. Whatever it is that's continually following Stiles into his dreams and attempting to keep him there can't stand up to Cor.

Stiles grins.

Cor shakes his head rapidly from side to side, shredding the branch it tore clear off. The tree screeches pitifully and pulls away, reverting back to a harmless piece of flora. The wolf drops the splintered wood from his mouth and searches from side to side for any further threats.

"Cor," Stiles calls and the wolf turns to him. Stiles smiles. "Hey, buddy."

Cor yips delightedly and bounds over to his master. Stiles holds him tight and doesn't let go for a long, long while.

When he pulls back to look at his beast, he sees that Cor's eyes are red. Alpha red. Like Derek's. They gleam like little jewels inset in a glittering snow bank.

"I got you back, buddy," Stiles tells him, ruffling his collar. Cor's fur feels oddly hot, like an electric buzz, sort of like the fuzzy static feeling in your hand when you hold it just over a light bulb.

Cor woofs in agreement, in thanks maybe, and headbutts Stiles in the chest, rocking him back slightly before Stiles sways back in.

"I still can't get you back in the real world," Stiles says ruefully. "The waking world or whatever it is. Somebody's blocking the power supply. Hogging it all for himself. Selfish, I know right? And you know how they're doing it?"

Cor tilts his head curiously.

"By _sacrificing_ people. Yeah, that's right. Offering up another person's life so they can level up. What a dick move."

Cor rumbles menacingly, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly," Stiles replies. "I don't know what we can do here in dreamland, but I say we find out. See if we can't put a damper on their plans, the way they've been doing to ours."

Cor barks, short and sharp. Stiles takes that as, _Ready to eviscerate whatever we may find._

Stiles smirks. "Then let's get on with it."

Stiles rises and Cor takes position at his heel.

"Which way, boy?"

The wolf lifts his nose to the air and scents it in every direction. His head snaps down suddenly and points to the east. A low growl vibrates against Stiles' leg.

"Thatta way, it is," Stiles drawls and starts off toward the thick of trees. "Let's see just what we can mess up in here."


	7. Anyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What chapter is this even. LAWD, how this has gotten out of hand! Ah, well!

The morning comes before Stiles is really ready for it to. He and Cor didn't get very far in the dreamscape. They definitely didn't get the chance to tear anything to pieces. Shame, that.

But the real world is calling with its own set of problems. The first of which he asks his father about as soon as he greets him.

"Yes, I got Heather's family out of town last night. It was pretty easy to do after Deaton so helpfully phoned in that anonymous threat against her judge of a mother. They'll be staying out of Beacon Hills until I can "resolve the issue"."

"Thanks, Dad, you're the best."

"Don't speak too soon. There was still a murder last night. Another sacrifice. Same as the first."

Stiles blanches. "What? But...the position of the trees. I thought Heather would be next. The first victim matched the description of the first guy on the left. Was I wrong?"

"A lot of people match that description, son. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was another victim."

"Did he have foofy brown hair or flat brown hair, Dad?" Stiles asks, spastically gesturing at his forehead.

"...Flat…" the Sheriff answers, wondering why that's an important distinction.

"Then it's the first guy. The only other brown-haired white guy in the dream had foof. Heather should have been next."

"Do you think it just skipped to the next one?"

"I don't think so. What did this vic look like?"

"It was a sophomore at the high school. Brent Haskell. Male, red hair and freckles."

"That doesn't match any of the people from the dreams." Stiles shakes his head. "I doubt it can skip a sacrifice. It has to be fifteen sacrifices for the ritual to work. It probably just found a replacement."

"So by saving Heather…"

"I killed somebody else."

"Stiles," the Sheriff says adamantly. " _You_ didn't kill anybody. The psycho committing these murders did. Okay?"

Stiles is thin-lipped and silent.

"Stiles. _Okay?_ " the Sheriff demands.

" _Okay_ ," Stiles says harshly. A pause. "I need to see the bodies. Have you seen, Derek?"

Sheriff Stilinski sighs. Probably in distaste of the idea of his seventeen year-old son taking a gander at a pair of corpses. He says, "No. I haven't seen Derek."

Stiles goes rigid. "At all?"

His father's tone softens. "At all, son. Sorry."

"It's fine," Stiles says quickly. "He just needs some space still. I wonder… I wonder if I can sync us remotely. Like bluetooth."

The Sheriff gives him a flat look. "Bluetooth?"

Stiles cringes at his own choice of words and says, "It was a valid idea, okay?"

"But bluetooth, Stiles? Really?"

"Okay, bad comparison, yes. But I'm going to try it. Stop judging me. Here goes nothing."

Stiles closes his eyes; it still helps him concentrate despite their defunct state. He reaches out, searching for Derek like he did the time those Argent fanatics had him tied to a chair. He finds him quickly and knows he must not be far, as promised. He's not quite sure how to go about this since he's usually touching Derek and has a single point to focus on. He figures imagining a single point might do the trick, so he pictures his own hands in his mind's eye and _pushes_.

It works.

It works and Stiles screams in torment, because _it worked_.

Wherever he is, Derek is in _pain_. His roaring cry for help is provided an outlet that it gladly utilizes, when the link comes online, and Derek's agony surges through Stiles' whole body in technicolor, surround-sound clarity.

Stiles' irises flare to red and he stares into his father's face as the Sheriff grips him by the shoulders and demands to know what's wrong.

"Derek," Stiles gasps out. "It's Derek. He's in pain. A whole lot of pain."

Stiles lurches, bends, and convulses under the screaming onslaught coming from Derek, the frantic begging for mercy, the desperate plea to make it all stop.

The door bursts open and it's Melissa, Scott, Allison, and surprisingly, Chris.

"What's happening?" Scott demands.

"Derek!" Stiles gasps. "He needs help, he--"

"Where is he?" Allison urges.

"I don't, I--" Stiles trembles. He has no idea where Derek is. He can't see through Derek's eyes using the link.

Unless he can?

Perhaps it is only Stiles' own doubts that are holding him back. Deaton talked about the importance of his belief in his magic, the effect it will have on things working properly. The fact of the matter is he won't know what is or isn't possible until he just _tries_. So Stiles grits his teeth, opens his mind to the possibility, _believes_ that their link _can_ transmit sight and then--

And then it can.

The scene before Stiles flares bright white and when the light fades, he's no longer looking at the hospital room. He's looking at the floor of Derek's loft. It's like looking through water, everything is distorted and kind of blurry around the edges. He's not _actually Derek_ , but it's like he's occupying Derek's body with him, just along for the ride, while Derek steers. Everything is clear enough. He can hear Deucalion talking, something about a demon wolf, and he can hear Kali snarl, and he can feel the metal rod shoved through his middle and it _hurts_ , it hurts so bad and then Kali twists and--

Derek screams and his fangs lengthen involuntarily, his claws sprouting and digging into the floor.

Stiles screams and fangs that aren't his protrude from his gums and claws that don't belong to him rip through the sheets of the hospital blanket.

Stiles gasps and suddenly he's back in the hospital room, blind and painless and terrified for Derek.

"The loft. He's at his loft, go, go!" Stiles shouts.

"Call Isaac!" Scott tells Allison.

They're out the door in a flash. Chris and Melissa remain behind.

Melissa comes over to wrap her arms around Stiles and hold him to her chest. He's crying and he doesn't even know when that started, but it must have been after the link disconnected, because Derek hadn't been crying.

"What the hell just happened?" the Sheriff asks, dumbstruck and a teensy bit furious about the whole ordeal.

"I've certainly never seen anything like it," Chris says.

Stiles' head jerks toward Chris. "Why are you here exactly?"

" _I_ asked him to be here," the Sheriff says. "To help escort you home since all the werewolves have school. It _is_ a Monday."

"Since when are you and Mr. Argent all buddy-buddy?" Stiles asks petulantly.

"Since you went missing and Chris helped look for you," the Sheriff snaps.

"Oh." Stiles looks properly abashed. "Well, then thank you for being here, Chris."

"You're welcome, Stiles," Chris says diplomatically.

There's a pregnant pause

Whining like a child, Stiles breaks the silence by asking, "Can I go home now?"

"I'll get the paperwork drawn up," Melissa says with a fond smile.

Stiles is out of the hospital in the next half hour.

 

Allison blessedly shoots her father a text to let them know that Derek is healing fine and there's no sign of the Alphas lingering. They decide they'll regroup at the Stilinskis' house.

Derek is laid out on Stiles' bed, convalescing, when they get there. The first thing he says to Stiles is: "I think I've had enough space…" pausing to grunt in pain, "...if having space means getting impaled."

Stiles laughs hysterically and cradles Derek's head to his chest. "I felt everything," he whispers.

"I know...I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, you idiot. It let me know you needed help. And I learned a new trick. So overall I'd say it was a good thing."

"You synced us...remotely," Derek seems to settle on the word. For all that their bond is nothing like a modern piece of circuitry, everyone has to admit the analogies are apt.

"Yeah..." Reluctantly, Stiles admits, "There's something else…"

Derek gives him a puzzled look that Stiles can't see. Everyone else in the room sees it just fine.

"We'll leave you two alone," the Sheriff says courteously. To the trio beside them he says, "Kids, get to school, you're already late."

"Yes, sir, Sheriff," Scott says humorously and they all shuffle out the door with Mr. Argent and the Sheriff.

Stiles tells Derek about what happened. Derek can offer no real explanation for it, only theorizing that maybe it's able to evolve according to Stiles' will. Heaven knows if that's normal or not. Stiles doesn't really care one way or another. He's simply glad to have Derek beside him again, alive and whole, regardless of the magical or supernatural circumstances.

Derek passes along Deucalion's reason for being there, to threaten him and deliver the apparent message about being the unstoppable "demon-wolf." Stiles scoffs, vowing he'll take him down a peg or two if it's the last thing he does. Derek doesn't like that promise much, but he keeps quiet in favor of not starting another argument just yet.

They lay together for a while, enfolded in each other's arms and enjoying the warmth that the other's presence brings; the sense of completion that can only come when all is right between mates.

A knock comes at the door. It's the Sheriff. He peeks his head in and says, "I'm sorry to break this up, boys, but I've arranged for Stiles to meet with a private tutor today."

"A tutor?" Stiles says, frowning.

"You've got to do something to keep up on your work. The school recommended it. This way you can still complete the school year no matter when you go back. How's that coming by the way? The blindness."

Stiles shrugs. "I have some theories."

Neither John nor Derek particularly like the way he said that.

"Okay, well. Run anything you do by Derek or Deaton first," the Sheriff says. "Derek, you're welcome to stay. Chris has volunteered to stay and I'll be here all afternoon, too."

"I'll stay," Derek says quickly, brooking no room for argument.

"All right. Come on down, then. The tutor's waiting."

Stiles holds onto Derek's arm as they descend the stairs together. As favorable as it would be to have his sight to do any schoolwork, it wouldn't do to have the injury suddenly vanish or for his eyes to glow red in the presence of a stranger. Unfortunately, Stiles will have to remain blind, eyes bandaged, around his tutor.

They reach the living room, where Stiles can hear Mr. Argent and the Sheriff talking to a woman about Stiles "accident."

They stop when he and Derek appear in the doorway.

"Ah, there they are," John says. "This is my son, Stiles, and our family friend, Derek Hale. He's helping us until Stiles' condition improves."

 _Convenient excuse for having a random twenty-something year-old hanging around. Nice one, Dad,_ Stiles thinks proudly of his father's cover story. Stiles holds out a hand, hoping the teacher will take it and not leave him hanging there awkwardly.

She doesn't disappoint, gripping his hand gently in a delicate shake. Her tone of voice would indicate that she's smiling as she says, "It's so nice to meet you, Stiles. I'm glad I'll be able to help along with Mr. Hale."

She releases his hands and the shift in Derek's stance would indicate that she's shaking hands with him now.

"A pleasure," she says.

"Nice to meet you," Derek replies politely.

"Yeah, nice to meet you," Stiles echoes. "Uh. What did you say your name was?"

"Oh, I didn't," she says pleasantly. "It's Miss Blake. Jennifer Blake. I look forward to teaching you, Stiles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! The return of plot!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


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